


A Lighter Path

by holycricket



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holycricket/pseuds/holycricket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. 7th Year. HG/DM. Draco Malfoy was born for a role that he has desperately been trying to fulfil, and there is a dark mark on his arm to prove it. But he's struggling more and more to take the path his parents insist he is destined to travel. Meanwhile, Harry and Hermione are struggling their way through their search for horcruxes without Ron. One day, their paths cross...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Draco had spent his entire life knowing that Hogwarts was the safest place on earth. Unfortunately for him, all illusions of safety had disappeared as soon as Dumbledore had hit the floor, dead. Suddenly, the man didn't seem like a bumbling old fool anymore. Agreeing to kill the man was his biggest regret, hands down. At the time, he didn't feel like he had a choice: he would agree, or he would die. If only he had known that he would probably die anyway, he could have saved the wizarding world a lot of grief. He was certain that things would not be this way if the man were still alive. Hogwarts would still be a home.

The horrible, most ridiculous thing was that Draco had never actually wanted any of this to happen. He had never wanted to be a part of any of it. There was no denying that he wasn't the nicest person in the world - eleven years living non stop with his parents had seen to that. He was a Slytherin, yes. He was more than happy to taunt others and spend the family's fortune, yes. But Draco Malfoy was not a murderer. His Dark Mark itched constantly, a lie etched into his skin. It was the symbol of the most evil wizards humanity had to offer, and Draco had been accepted amongst their ranks without a word of objection. Because of his _name._

Another regret was how hard he had tried to live up to it. He, alone, had been chosen to murder Albus Dumbledore. The Dark Lord, the one with the name even his closest followers feared, had picked Draco to kill the only person he was scared of. It had been a bloody big ask from the start, if you asked him, yet it was supposed to be an honour. Everybody knew that Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard on the Earth: that was why Voldemort was scared of him, why he didn't dare touch Hogwarts. Draco had spent an entire year preparing for the duel he was so certain he would face, desperately hoping that he would not fail, and that he would not die.

Perhaps, if Dumbledore had fought back, like he was supposed to, Draco would've been able to kill him. Killing in defence was acceptable. Killing a defenceless old man was not. It was only when he truly looked into Albus' eyes, moments before his death, that he'd realised he couldn't do it. He was, after all his efforts, not a murderer. He had a conscience.

That was the beginning of his problem. A select few people knew that Draco had not killed Dumbledore because he could not: most notably Professor Snape and Harry Potter. Not that Potter would do him any good. The Boy Who Had No Hairbrush was probably in hiding, hoping desperately that he wouldn't be discovered, and, simultaneously, hoping that he'd walk straight into Voldemort's nest and be able to blow the man's head off. Everyone was looking for an end to the war, hoping for safety, regardless of what side they were on. Snape, however, could be a problem. His godfather had always treated him in the same, condescending way he had his other students, but, at the same time, he had always been there for him. Far more than Lucius Malfoy ever had been, in any case.

But Snape was in a far more favoured position, now. Voldemort was winning and Snape had killed his biggest rival. If Snape had any hint that Draco wasn't as sympathetic to the Death Eater cause as he once had been, he could have him killed in a minute. The unconditional trust he had had for the man had disappeared the moment he killed Dumbledore, for, in doing so, he could have killed Draco, too. There was no predicting how Voldemort would react when his plans went wrong, but it was not wild to assume it would be with murder.

See? He had a big problem on his hands. What did you do when you were born into an institution you didn't believe in? When you lived in the heart of its murderous workings, and no longer had anyone you could trust? For a while, he had assumed his only options were to play along or be killed. But the way in which Hogwarts students were now being tortured as a punishment rather than polishing trophies was brutal. And if it was brutal in Hogwarts, it was almost certainly murderous outside. It would not be long until he was expected to officially join the ranks of the Death Eaters, and murdering people was top of their duty list. It would not be long until he would have to refuse to kill another innocent person, and thus, it would not be long until the Death Eaters killed him. He could imagine that they would force his father to do it.

It was beginning to dawn on him that his only chance of survival was to _run._


	2. Chapter 1

The rain is torrential. It had been pounding against tent all night, mirroring the dull throbbing in my head. I’d like to convince myself that the rain is what kept me awake, but I know that that’s not the reason why. I was awake all night thinking of Ron. He has left us, and there is no possibility that he can come back. Once we leave these woods, he will not be able to find us again. Ironically, it is my wards, my spells that will keep him away. We cannot risk camping without them, though.

All the same, I dawdle. I repack the beaded bag Ron had been so surprised I’d had once, twice, three times in total. Harry does, too, casting cleaning spells and moving rocks so that there is no evidence we were ever here. He casts a Patronus - perhaps for practice, perhaps to see if he can concentrate that hard on a happy memory, still - and it is still full bodied. The stag is not bounding around in search of a fight as it usually is, though. It mopes around and licks its wounds. Harry smiles and shrugs at me, and he opens his mouth as though he’s going to suggest I try, too. He doesn’t. I wouldn’t try, anyway. I know all that I am able to produce are wisps of silver. My go-to happy memory is Christmas at The Burrow, where Molly cooked a fantastic meal and listened to silly songs about love and cauldrons on the radio. I think it was the happiest Harry, Ron and I had ever been. We had had nothing to worry about. Now, though, how can I concentrate on a happy memory with Ron when he has left us?

I hear the loud crack that comes with Apparation and my head snaps up, expecting to see a tuft of red hair. For one, tiny snapshot of a second, a smile breaks out on my face. Then I see a flash of blond hair and it disappears. Shit shit shit shit shit, I think. Shit. I call for Harry, and he is by my side, observing the same figure in under a second. We see its face, and I gasp.

“It’s Malfoy,” Harry says, and my heart sinks until I realise that he is soaked through to the bone. He’s wearing his Hogwarts robes, but they are ripped and untidy in a way I have never seen on him before. His hair is tangled, and he looks close to tears as he casts feeble water repelling spells on himself. I hate Malfoy, I hate him from the bottom of my heart and in the core of my soul for the way he treats me and people like me, but he looks so vulnerable. I can’t help but feel sympathy for him. A deep, motherly instinct in me emerges, and I am overcome with the desire to rub him off with a towel and sing little lullabies to him.

Harry looks angry, though. Harry is always angry, which is why I have been keeping the Horcrux on my neck, not his.

“I think he needs help,” I tell him, and his mouth sets in a hard line that says he doesn’t agree.

“It’s a trap, Hermione. We need to get out of here.” I can see the logic in his argument, but my gut feeling says there is nobody else around. There was only one crack, and the only way they could have found out our location is through Ron. I know Ron well enough to know that no matter how angry and upset he is with us, he will not tell anyone where we are. He is not stupid, and even if he has been caught - and I sincerely hope he hasn’t - it would take the Death Eaters more than a few hours to squeeze out the information they needed to find us here.

Even so, I draw my wand and cast a spell. “Homenum revelio,” I whisper, and suddenly a gust of warm wind comes from Malfoy’s direction. It is only small, though, and I remain cold on all other sides. “We’re alone, Harry.” Harry’s mouth is still set in the same hard line, but his shoulders sag.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he breathes, and I don’t tell him off for his language, for once. The same word has been running through my head like a broken record player. Fuck, fuck, fuck, we’re going to have to help Malfoy, fuck. If Ron were here, he would be swearing endlessly, debating whether we should hex him before we leave him out here, all alone. But Ron is not here, and his stubbornness is not around to persuade us that this could be a vital mistake. We have me, and my motherly instinct, and Harry, and his willingness to see the best in people. I remember a conversation we had not long after Dumbledore died - after he was killed - where he told me that Malfoy had been lowering his wand and that he didn’t believe Malfoy was capable of killing the man. Maybe, just maybe, this is why Harry isn’t demanding that we Disapparate immediately.

“Harry,” I say, my voice becoming a lot stronger than I feel. “He won’t last two days without us. Look at him. All he has with him is his wand.”

Harry sighs and nods and walks away, only to come back again. He sighs once more, and I can almost hear the swear words going through his head. He gives me the beaded bag and takes my hand, and we walk out of the wards together, our wands raised. I nearly stop and turn around, or run, or just Disapparate us out of there immediately. What if we’re making a mistake? But Harry has his wand raised, and he is holding my hand tightly. I will still be able to Disapparate us out of here if I need to.

Harry casts a simple Expelliarmus and catches Malfoy’s wand easily. It goes straight into my bag.

Malfoy shrieks and stands up from the rock he was sat on. Harry’s hand squeezes mine a little more tightly, and I know, despite the danger of the situation, he is trying not to laugh. When Malfoy sees us, his eyes widen and he takes a step back, moving into some sort of fighting or dodging stance. The shock on his face is obvious, and his voice wavers as he speaks. “Potter? Granger?”

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry asks. Malfoy looks rather taken aback.

“I could ask you the same thing, Potter. Aren’t you supposed to be out hunting The Dark Lord or something?” He shakes his head, disbelieving.

Harry repeats his question, raising his wand towards Malfoy.

“I’m running away,” comes Malfoy’s answer. I blink. Harry snorts. He is not taking this situation seriously.

“You expect us to believe that Pure-blood, Death Eater Malfoy is running away?” Malfoy flinches, then nods.

“Why would you run, Malfoy? You were safe,” I say, not realising I am speaking until the words are already out of my mouth.

“I’m not cut out for being a Death Eater,” he says, his voice somewhere in between sad and bitter. “I couldn’t, wouldn’t kill Dumbledore, and I don’t want to kill - or torture - anyone else, either. I couldn’t get away with it for much longer. They’ll kill me if I don’t do what they want. So I have to run.”

The same burst of sympathy runs through me. Suddenly, he doesn’t seem so inhuman anymore. A boy that is forced to torture is very different from a boy that enjoys it.

"So," Malfoy says, scowling, suddenly looking far more like the boy I once punched in the face. "You see my problem. Now, what're you going to do with me? I can't imagine you'll give me my wand and leave me alone, will you?"

“No, no, we can't. We won't," Harry says. "You won't last two minutes out here by yourself. And when they catch up with you, you'll have some wonderful information about us to save yourself with, now. You're going to have to come with us."

"Come with you?" Malfoy almost laughs, but Harry is looking him dead in the eye. Shit, shit, shit, fuck, bollocks, the voice in my head is saying. I might feel bad for him, but I don’t want to live with him and travel with him and put up with him every day. I don’t want him to fill the void that Ron has left behind. I am already thinking of the woods I went camping in one summer, the ones with the bluebells my mother banned me from picking. But Harry speaks before I can whip us away from here.

"You say you don't want to fight for Voldemort? Fine. I reckon you might be telling the truth. So, I'm giving you a chance to prove it." Malfoy nods. We have his wand, he has no choice in the matter. And everyone knows Harry has to play the hero. Malfoy’s vulnerability feeds my motherly instinct, the one that should not yet be alive and breathing, but it also feeds Harry’s hero complex. The one he has had since he was eleven years old.

"Okay. But one last thing. Where's Weasley?"

I burst into tears.

* * *

Malfoy has been with us for all of an hour, and I can already tell that he’s regretting coming with us. Not that we’d given him a choice, of course. Perhaps it would have been better for us not to have revealed ourselves, but the deed is done. There is no point in debating over past decisions when we have so many new ones ahead of us. I can’t blame him for not wanting to be here, though. Harry and I aren’t exactly the most cheerful of companions now that Ron has left. How can we be? Our best friend, the one who cheers us up with silly remarks and jokes and is far too tall for his own good, has left us. It’s no cheerful revelation.

The cliffside we had Disapparated to was covered in heather. For a second, I’m glad, thinking it’ll give us a comfortable, soft floor to sleep on. But then I remember the capabilities of a magical tent: there is no need to worry that I’ll have sharp stone poking into my back all night. The tent will have a flat, soft floor no matter where it is pitched. It feels odd, that the world is at war and we - the people who are supposed to destroy parts of Voldemort’s soul - are living rather comfortably in a magical tent. Harry goes to set up the wards, and I am grateful. I still have tears down my face from the Malfoy’s reminder that Ron is gone. I want to be angry at both of them, but I know that it is not their fault. The blame lies with the Horcrux locket around my neck, the one that is whispering things to me, telling me it is my fault. That I could have done something to stop Ron from leaving.

I could’ve kissed him. I know that. A kiss would have stopped him in his tracks and softened him, for it is exactly what he wants. But I am beginning to realize that I don’t want to kiss him, I don’t want to be with him. A war is no time for a romance.

I sniff, and wipe the last of my tears away, before I realize Malfoy is watching me.

* * *

Three days later, I snap at Malfoy. I yell and swear at him. I call him a filthy murderous Pure-blood mother fucker, and tell him to go back to his daddy. I barely register the shock and hurt on his face as I yell at him. He does not fight back. I tell him he is not Ron, he is not welcome here, that we don’t need anyone else. Harry laughs and I turn on him, and I step towards him. All I can see is red and anger and somehow, I think it is Harry’s fault that Ron left and that he hasn’t come back. I am about to shove him when he steps towards me and behind me, and he unclips the Horcrux from around my neck.

I let out a strange, almost animalistic noise of frustration and sit, my fists clenched. I glare daggers at the two boys, before I realize I can breathe again. My shoulders relax and tears spring to my eyes, and suddenly all of the anger is gone.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, feeling utterly defeated. I have betrayed myself. Just like Ron, I gave into the Horcrux, letting it whisper things to me, letting myself believe it and allowing the rage to build up inside of me. I feel a slight glimmer of pride that I did not leave.

Malfoy scowls. “Time of the month, is it, Granger?”

I look up at him and the urge to punch him resurfaces again, but then I realize Harry is glaring at him for me. “It wasn’t her,” Harry says, his voice low and a little bit angry. Harry is always a little bit angry. “It was this.” He holds up the Horcrux and then puts it round his own neck.

We tell Malfoy about the Horcruxes, the slithers of Voldemort’s soul that we are so desperate to destroy. He remains silent throughout the whole thing, but at the end, he smiles the most genuine smile I have ever seen on his face, and he thanks us. “Thank you for what?” I ask.

“For trusting me,” he says. “For letting me help.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LittleLaura @ dramione.org for agreeing to beta this.

Trying to make sense of all of this is proving to be difficult. So, I am trying to concentrate on what I know, rather than what I don’t. If I can make sense of what I am certain of, then perhaps I can progress from there. I have made a list.

One: I am a Malfoy.  
Two: I have betrayed my family.  
Three: I am in serious danger.  
Four: I am trapped.

I am all too aware that it is a short list, but it is a starting point. Understanding what I know, how I know it, and how it came to be is a harder thing altogether. I am a Malfoy, there is no denying that: I am heir to the Malfoy lands, businesses and wealth. I have inherited all of the infamous Malfoy characteristics: sharp cheekbones, pale skin, light hair, tall frame. And yet I avoid all mirrors because I am here, in a shabby old Weasley tent, with Potter and Granger, the two people who will most certainly fight tooth and nail against the cause my family is aligned with. If Voldemort’s circle find me, I am dead. And, if Potter and Granger abandon me, find me they shall. So I will not leave. 

But, at the same time, I cannot leave. They have my wand, and there is no indication that they are going to give it back.

You can tell that I have a lot of thinking time, can’t you? Potter and Granger keep themselves to themselves - and by that, I do not mean they stick together and exclude me. They are not talking to each other, either, and I suspect it has something to do with a certain Weasley. Not that I know much about where the feral red head is, of course. Potter and Granger do not trust me, and I do not trust them, either. But I am trying.

I wanted to hurt Granger when she yelled at me. I was reminded all too suddenly of the time she had punched me, the time I had run away from her. This time, I wanted to punch her back, and show her why it was people do not mess with me. I may be unable to kill a man, and I may have shown my cowardice when I ran away, but would I hit Granger? Yes. Yet I stood calm, unflinching, ignoring her words and willing for it to be over. If I had retaliated, Potter and Granger would have their first excuse to pack up and leave me behind. I could not take that risk. 

It would seem that it worked, though. They told me of their plan, the mission a dying Dumbledore had given them. A mission that I could help with.

It may sound a little cliché, but I felt hopeful, then. I thanked them, and it was perhaps the most genuine thing I had ever said to them. I had run because I was afraid to face my future at Hogwarts, because I did not have the guts to kill because I had been told to kill. I had run because I am a coward, because I do not want the cards the Fates have dealt me. My hatred for my Father - the man who orchestrated everything that forced me to run - and for Voldemort - the man who had enslaved my Father to begin with - grows every day. It is a justified hatred, and, therefore, I can act on it. My conscience will not protest.

Now, it seems that a chance encounter with two thirds of the Golden Trio has given me a path to follow. The Fates must be smiling upon me, for with it comes a chance to fight for something I believe in.

* * *

It is leading up to Christmas, and, naturally, we are in the centre of winter. There is little snow, though. The weather brings us fog, rain, wind, hail, sleet, and a chill that reaches your bones and makes you so cold you are no longer sure what warmth is. In short, it is entirely miserable. 

Potter has disappeared off somewhere - for food, I think - and I am stuck in the shabby parlour area of the tent with Granger. She is reading, and her brow is furrowed in concentration. Granger is a fast reader, of course, as am I. But I did not have the foresight to bring books with me, and I am bored out of my skull. There is nothing to do, and I find myself itching to start a conversation. I am used to the ever-entertaining Slytherin common room, filled with gossip and games. There is nothing to gossip about here, and the atmosphere is so foreboding that playing a game would seem obscene. So, conversation it is.

“Do you know you only blink when you turn the page?” I ask, smirking a little. 

Granger jumps a little, popping out of whatever realm the book had taken her to. 

“Excuse me?” She says, and I repeat myself. She blinks in confusion, and I laugh a little at the irony of it.

“No, I didn’t know that,” she says, giving me the same furrowed brow look she had the book. I feel almost self conscious for a second, for it seems as though she is studying me, trying to extract some sort of answer to an unknown question. There is no hint of a smile about her lips, though - she is frowning, as though it is a question she doesn’t like.

“What do you want to know, Granger? You look like you’re about to write an inquisitive essay on me.”

Her answer is immediate. “Why are you still here?” I sigh. I should have predicted that one.

“I’m not evil, you know, no matter what you might think,” I say, reminding myself to remain polite and friendly. I cannot fuck this up. Her brow furrows even more, and her eyebrows look as though they’re about to have a reunion.

“It doesn’t make sense, though... Why, after all these years, have you suddenly turned your back on all of your family’s values?” I raise an eyebrow. It is the same question I have been mulling over for a while now. I realise that as much as I have no desire to trust Granger, I need to be honest if I am going to gain her trust, and my wand back. I want to fight for the same cause as them, and they need to trust that my intention to do so is sound. So I tell the truth.

“I’m not entirely sure - for several reasons, perhaps. But I think it started with the Weasley’s,” I admit. Her eyes widen.

“The Weasley’s?”

“Yes - remember that time my Father and I bumped into you all in Flourish and Blotts? Just before second year?” 

She nods. “You were a prat to us, and your Father slipped Tom Riddle’s diary into Ginny’s cauldron.”   
“Yeah, well... I was convinced that I was better. I was told that the Malfoy’s were superior in their name, blood, status, wealth and mind to you and the Weasley’s. I’d taken on the belief as my own. I thought I had the right to look down on you all, because I was better than you. But there was something about the Weasley’s that struck me... You could tell how much the Weasley parents loved each other - they communicated that in a single look between them. And the whole clan just seemed to fucking radiate happiness, you know?” 

Granger smiles and nods again, understanding. “They’re one of the happiest families I’ve ever come across.”

I nod, too, and swallow. “And I remember thinking that I had never seen my parents express that kind of love, ever. And the only being that ever expressed some kind of paternal affection for me was a house elf... and there were the Weasley’s doing it all in public as though it were the most normal thing in the world. And I thought, if we are so much better than them, why are they happy and we’re not?”

I clasp my hands together and look away from her. I have never told anyone that, ever, and it feels strange. She does not trust me, I remind myself. She is the difference between survival and death, and she has the power to swing things either way for me.

“And so the seed of doubt was planted,” she says, looking me straight in the eye. There is no longer a frown on her face, and I think that maybe, maybe, she might trust me a little more.

* * *

Voices wake me from the light slumber I have fallen into on the sofa. I cannot quite make out what they are saying, but what truly troubles me is that there are three voices. I can hear Potter and Granger’s, but there is another voice... another voice that rings a very distant bell. I scowl, anger suddenly coursing through me. I may be some sort of prisoner here, but if they have brought somebody else into the protection of the wards, I surely have a right to know. It is my safety they are risking, too. 

I take long, silent strides towards the door, so I can just about make out their words.

“Yes, yes, the Weasley girl has been banned from Hogsmeade...” the almost familiar voice says.

“Ginny? They banned her from Hogsmeade?” Potter raises his voice, sounding concerned, perhaps, but it is all too easy to eavesdrop on him. There is no reply from the strange man.

“Phineas, why would they ban her from Hogsmeade?” Potter repeats again. Phineas. The voice and the name click into place, and I suddenly realise who they are talking to: Phineas Nigellus Black. The man is dead, though, so it can only be a portrait... whose sister lies in the Headmaster’s office. I scowl, realising that, if they were unaware of this, they could be making a vital mistake. If Black were to discover our whereabouts, he would not hesitate in feeding Snape the information. I was tempted to burst in, to tell them what a mistake they were making, when my name was mentioned.

“Well, ever since Draco disappeared from Hogsmeade... They’ve been looking for a reason to ban your sympathisers in case they follow suit,” Phineas says, and I take a step closer to the door, listening intently.  
“Yes, Malfoy...” Potter says, and I mentally curse him. He was supposed to act surprised, damn it, he was supposed to pretend he knew nothing of me. 

“You know he vanished?” Comes the reply of the portrait.

“He- uh-” Potter realises his mistake, and my urge to punch him when I next see his scrawny little face multiplies.

“We were in Hogsmeade,” Granger says, and my visions of maiming Potter come to an abrupt halt. “Malfoy was alone, and he saw us, and tried to capture us. He was outnumbered, and it did not work in his favour.” 

“You have the Malfoy boy?” Black asks, his voice incredulous.

“I think that is quite enough questions for today, don’t you think, Harry?” 

I hear rummaging and the protests of Black, and I assume that he is being stowed away to wherever he had previously been kept. I run the conversation over again in my head, and I see red. How dare she lie to him about me?! She had absolutely no right, and when she walks through the door, I have no time to stop the words from coming out of my mouth.

“Why did you tell him that?” I shout, raising my voice and taking a step towards her. Perhaps it should be Granger I maim, not Potter. 

She is surprised, and backs away from me, and I can hear Potter coming from wherever he was.

“Why would you say anything about me? You have no right to feed them lies, no right to tell them I am still on their side...” 

She looks me in the eye, and takes a step towards me again. “I did it for your own protection, Malfoy, you idiot.”

“Oh yeah? How is that going to protect me? I ran away from them for a reason, damn it, do you expect me to walk straight back into their arms and pretend I was captured?”

“No, Malfoy,” she says, her voice a little softer now. “We’re not sending you back to them. But if we were to get caught, you’ll be a lot safer if they don’t know you fled.” 

I raise my eyebrows at her, realising her logic. “You weren’t endangering me... you were protecting me?” I ask, the question out before I can stop it.

“Yes,” she replies, and she walks away, past a very confused Potter. I take a look at The Boy Who Lived, and conclude that he is as bewildered as I am, before I, too, walk away.


End file.
